The Red Rocking Chair

My Little Monkey

Home was a trailer parked in the hills
Home was her peppermint stick bow for a mouth
Home was the way she clutched it in her hands like a dying man,
the way her hair had not yet grown in enough to cover her grandpas ears
it was the great, round, denium blue of her eyes filled with hungry tears
home was the fresh scent of Baby powder on June breezes
and silence was the croaking and creaking of summer nights on the porch
the way it kept up the time in background beat of the mountian Dulcimer.
Home was the stomp and tap of the fiddler's clog dance that sounded like thunder
on the smooth wooden floors of the neighbors house some 4 miles south
Home was the toot of the whiskey jug and rabbits running the back yard.
It was the scratch and peck of mighty hens gathering eggs for the
sausage gravy and buscuit mornings after.
Home was the thump of my heart in the sweltering heat, my curls a helmet agaisnt
a golden assault and the sweet warm smell of plump wild blackberries in the vines,

and the taste of wild onion grass in the corner of a crooked  smile.

Home was the rolling hills of blue grass country where men are nails and lean
as snakes but should you find a tender heart amongst the lot of them,
then that too is your home,
forever.

Author's Note

Reviews

[jacob erin-cilberto]

I never had a Grandpa really...only one and he was a b*****d...my mom didn't even go to his funeral when he died.
I miss getting the chance to learn from and about my dad's dad. Never met him...he came over from Sicily on a boat as an orphan...we learn so much from the older generation...and we try so hard to please them
and their love is so often unconditional...sometimes stronger than our own parents' love.
and then the Chair rocks but is empty...our hearts push it.
this reminds me of "end of the line" by the Traveling Wilburys...
and when Roy Orbison was singing and they had the Rocking Chair with just his guitar and it was
rocking back and forth.
Haunting poem, and thoughts that come along with it.

[Corset]

yes, mine too from what I understand , quite the prize, very glad I was spared some things in life. These were the days before tv and computers when music, our imaginations and each other gave the entertainment. When the woman were married for 50 to 70 years if they lived that long, somehow that seems haunting to me too lol.

[Tara]

No words. Just awe. But apparently I am being asked for at least 25 words so I love it!

[Corset]

but miss Tara thats only nineteen words , so guess you'll just keep them asking :D I favor the dot dot dot a bit for skirt 'round that golden rule.

[Tara]

Never good at math. Pffft

[Corset]

I could never put two and two together well either

[emmajoy]

Home isn't a palace, nor what feeds not seats.. it's a feeling, warm, safe and.. memorable... people filled,this and that shared and the make do of what there is cos is how one learns to manage, honour rattling money I have an old cloth covered exercise book full of cut out recipes: how to use offal.. argh .. how to make tatties, grass and wild garlic soup., And that was my seventeen year old newly married recipe book that her mum had put together! Wisdom of walked hand in hand with those darlings.. they were walking history . Making a collar from shirt tails, I never have. We played games with only grandma watching on cos the grandpas died early, sad..sad. Only knew the one. But they taught us the best games.. and none cost a penny. We werent poor but careful as could be, seven children .new doc.. non working little mum, Thank the Lord we'd not had rich forbears, .

Sorry, blathered on after reading your words, magical and wise.. each line a wee example of how to.. be real, how to cope..

Your poem is a keeper, its a great learning curve to sit top of.. to rake up such telling memories. Thank you so much for your own special words but letting me remember a few of mine. Hugs. Keep safe.

' Home was the rolling hills of blue grass country where men are nails and lean
as snakes but should you find a tender heart amongst the lot of them,
then that too is your home,
forever.'

You don;t have to have money to be rich.. do you?

[Corset]

This is what I love to read, Thank you Emma I love it when people come and find a memory or two to share in the things I write. beautiful comments, and no, we are rich already in so many ways.

[Wild Rose]

We have a marmot. It lives in our camper van
Rescued from a 'Raggy Doll' box in the crafts/cafe at the summit of the Grossglocknerhochalpenstrass.
The highest public road across the Alps - It will be eighteen at the end of this month - July 2020

[Corset]

I remember those, I never actually had one, but I did have a piggy bank made like one. Hold onto it, 50 more years and someone will try to steal it from you to sell for a fortune on Ebay :D Thank you Rose.

[Corset]

the Raggety Ann doll, That is, the Marmot won't live that long :(

[Wild Rose]

it is well traveled now Furthest north is Husavik in Iceland 500m (out on the Fjordu) watching whales
South is Gibraltar Highest is whew we found him lowest 10m below sea level in Holland

[Coyote Poetry]

A wonderful poem share dear Corset. My grandparent was similar. Homemade meals and simple life. Thank you dear friend for sharing the story of your grandfather.
Coyote